


Right in Front of My Salad?

by crocarlisle



Category: Original Work
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Co-workers, F/F, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining, Unhealthy Relationships, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-25 23:22:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20379826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crocarlisle/pseuds/crocarlisle
Summary: Charlene sucks in air through her teeth. “And you put up with this?”“I--! I’m.” Grant starts off indignant, but quickly deflates. He runs his fingers through his hair, tugging on it as he lowers his eyes to the table with what looks painfully close to shame. His voice is barely more than a whisper. “I don’t know what else to do.”She glances down at her abandoned salad, wondering what on Earth she could do for a man long since resigned to his fate. It would be so easy to pat his shoulder, give him a short 'That’s rough, buddy,' and never bring any of this up again.





	Right in Front of My Salad?

It’s not quite noon, but Charlene’s about ready to call it quits for the day. It seems like every single one of her vendors has decided to ring her up solely to piss her off, and she’s had enough. She can only spend so long explaining to someone that _ net 30 means we have 30 days to remit payment; if you need to be paid before then, then your terms need to be renegotiated, with your buyer, not with us, I only pay the bills sir, yes sir, I do have the power to pay you, but only within _ your _ terms, sir, which _ you _ agreed upon_\--

She’s only one woman; she can only take so much. She heads to the cafeteria, browsing the lackluster selection of premade meals, before resigning herself to a salad. After paying altogether too much for it she goes to find somewhere to sit, but options are scarce this close to lunch hour.

Eventually her eyes land on an empty seat across from a vaguely familiar face. Grant something or other, works alongside the AP department--handles employee expense reports rather than invoices. He keeps to himself; the only thing she ever hears from him is the occasional low grumbling when someone’s truly fucked up their report, or tried to write off alcohol as a business expense--again.

She’s never really talked to him, but he seems all right enough, and it’s better than eating at her desk. She edges her way through the sea of tables to get to him, flashes him a quick smile as she pulls out her chair. He looks up from the crossword he’s picking at to give her a quick nod, coupled with the smallest quirk of his lip, before immediately looking back down. She notices he’s got a nice sandwich and feels a pang of envy as she looks down at her overpriced salad, more than a little wilted from being in the fridge for god knows how long.

She sees he’s got an entire lunchbox out; it’s even got an apple in it. She’d seen him eating apples at his desk before and wondered where the office was hiding them; apparently the answer was in Grant’s lunch. Charlene pries the plastic lid off her salad, digging out the dressing packet and fork, and decides it’s only polite to strike up a casual conversation.

“Didn’t take you for the type to pack a lunch.”

Grant startles; he obviously wasn’t expecting any further interaction. “Uh? Oh, no, it’s--I didn’t--Rene usually--”

“Rene? Is that your wife?” She interrupts him to fast-track the conversation, as it seems like getting out a full sentence might take him a while. 

Grant suddenly seems flustered. “_ No_, no, he’s--Rene’s my--he’s. Rene’s a guy.”   
  
Charlene’s trying to be patient with him, but talking doesn’t seem to be his strong suit. “Sorry?”

Grant seems to recover a little, but not much. “Rene! Uh, he--it’s French, he’s not--he’s not my wife.” He looks away at the last bit, cheeks redder than they were a second ago.

She can’t help but chuckle. “Husband, then?”

His eyes whip over to her, bewildered. “Wh--not! That’s--it’s not--”  
  
“Breathe, you’re fine, it’s _ fine_. Promise. I’ve got a wife of my own at home, see?” She pulls out her phone; the lockscreen is a selfie that she and Jane had taken last month at the beach. “No worries.”

Grant’s caught off guard by the picture, panic subsiding as a hint of a genuine smile appears. “Oh, well that’s--that’s so sweet. She looks lovely.”

Charlene beams. “She is. We got married last fall; never been happier, to be honest.”

Grant’s eyes crinkle, his smile now hiding behind his coffee cup as he takes a sip.

She slips her phone back into her pocket before placing her chin in her hands, grinning over at Grant. “So, who _ is _ this Rene then? If not your husband or your wife.”

Grant sets his coffee on the table a little too hard as he stares down at his crossword with what could nearly be described as a pout. It’s definitely not hot enough for his cheeks to be as flushed as they are. “It’s nothing like that.”

“Oh, come on. Must be _ something _ if he’s sending you off with a little lunchbox each morning.”

Grant’s pout morphs into a grin he’s desperately trying to hide. “He’s--he’s just sweet, is all.”

She smiles in return, more openly; he’s got to have ten or fifteen years on her, but they practically melt off when he talks about this guy--he’s obviously head over heels.

“You’re really not together, then?” 

Grant’s smile falls; he suddenly looks very tired. He picks up his pen, but he’s doodling on the margins of his crossword rather than filling anything in. “I--not as such, no.” 

Charlene goes quiet; she’s obviously hit a nerve, and isn’t sure how to respond. He takes her silence as an opportunity to go back to his sandwich, and she decides to follow suit with her own meal.

She rips open her dressing packet and goes to pour it on to her salad; it lands on the lettuce in more of a glob than anything. Fighting a frown, she begins mixing it in, quickly losing hope that what she thought would be a mediocre salad would even make that benchmark.

Resigned to the fact that it was probably as good as it was going to get, Charlene stabs at her lettuce and takes a bite--immediately grimacing. Mediocre would be far too kind a descriptor for this mess.

She looks over at Grant’s lunch longingly. Jane’s an angel, she’d do sweet things like send Charlene off with a homemade lunch in a heartbeat, but she doesn’t have the _ time _ \--neither of them do. Jane’s got her shop, which takes everything she has just to keep afloat, and Charlene’s pushing 60 hours a week most of the time. But that’s just what people have to _ do _ to make ends meet around here; she’s sure it’s no different with Grant and this Rene guy. To wake up early, take time out of his morning, just to make sure that Grant’s taken care of--that can’t be nothing.

It’s really none of her business, and she should let the poor guy be, but things aren’t adding up and it’s going to eat at her if she doesn’t ask. “So, why aren’t you?”

“Hrnh?” Grant grunts, his mouth full.

“Together. Don’t tell me it’s not what you want; it’s all over your face. Is he still in the closet, or what?”

Grant barks out a laugh at that. “God--god, no. I don’t know if he ever was; not that kind of guy. It’s just--” He runs a hand down his face. “Nah, no, we’ve. We’ve known each other for ages, lived together for _ years_, but.”

“But?” 

“Sometimes I think--a _ lot _ of the time I think--I mean, he’s quite affectionate when he’s not thinking about it. Only it’s…” He trails off, struggling for words. 

Charlene nods, lets him gather his thoughts, not wanting to interrupt now that he’s opening up. She absentmindedly picks at her salad as she waits for him, though she’s reluctant to take another bite of the thing.

He starts back up after a moment, becoming more agitated the longer he goes on. “It’s like--the second I try to acknowledge anything--_us_\--he shuts down on me completely. Goes totally quiet, then he’ll wander to the kitchen, or lock himself in his room, or open one or another of those damned apps and find someone to spend the night with. I don’t know if he does it out of panic, or just to fucking _ torture _ me, or--”

“Jesus _Christ_, Grant. I don’t know how you can handle that. He’s got to know how you feel, right?”

Grant nearly throws his sandwich across the table as he gestures wildly. “That’s the thing, he _ does_! I’ve told him a dozen times, a dozen different ways, over _ years_, and he never says a damned word about it. All he does is ignore me for days afterwards, or he’ll find some excuse to go out of town completely for a while, or--” He breaks off, scrubbing at his eyes with his free hand.

Charlene can’t help but frown in sympathy; this guy sounds like a bit of a nightmare. “But then.. He comes back eventually, right?”

Grant drops his elbow onto the table, leans his forehead into his palm. He wasn’t quite yelling before, but all the fight seems to have gone out of him; he’s back to a tired mumble. “Yeah. Yeah, he does. And he acts like nothing happened, except he doesn’t let me near him for weeks on end, which is like. It’s fine, right?” 

He straightens himself up, giving Charlene a pleading look. She didn’t realize how little eye contact he’d made with her until then, but now that’s his eyes are on hers she can see how exhausted he is. She frowns sadly at him, unsure what to say.

Grant looks away again, going on without waiting for a response. “I mean--it’s not fine, I know it’s not. What I mean is--I don’t need anything, if it’s not what he wants. I’m okay being friends, or whatever the fuck we are. I really am. But then he’ll--it’s like he forgets he was ever upset, and suddenly he’s draped himself around my shoulders, he’s kissing my cheek, he’s practically in my lap on the couch--”

Charlene sucks in air through her teeth. “And you put up with this?”

“I--! I’m.” Grant starts off indignant, but quickly deflates. He runs his fingers through his hair, tugging on it as he lowers his eyes to the table with what looks painfully close to shame. His voice is barely more than a whisper. “I don’t know what else to do.”

She feels for Grant, but Charlene can’t help the frustrated edge in her voice. “_Confront him_? You can’t just sit and take this, Grant; this guy’s been jerking you around for--for how long?”

He mumbles at the table, so low she can hardly hear him. “Ten...ten years, give or take.”

“_Ten-- _Please, please tell me you’re joking.”

Grant says nothing; he doesn’t have to. His distraught eyes peeking through his hair say more than enough.

All the fight goes out of her at once. “Oh, Grant. Why are you doing this to yourself?”

“I…” Grant keeps his eyes on the table. His eyes look suspiciously watery before he squeezes them shut. “If this is what it takes for him to--for me to--so he doesn’t disappear completely, then.” He raises his shoulder in a tiny shrug.

Charlene didn’t sign up for this; she came here to get away from stress, but she’s quickly fallen deep into a whole new round of it. She glances down at her abandoned salad, wondering what on Earth she could do for a man long since resigned to his fate.

Still, she can't help but try. “I mean...Maybe if you--”

She’s cut off by Grant’s phone; he jolts, then drops his sandwich on a plate to tug it out of his pocket faster than she’s seen him move--well, ever. He checks the screen, and the most pathetic, desperate smile blooms on his face. Grant shoots an apologetic look to Charlene for the interruption before he answers.

“Hey, Princess.” His voice is painfully smitten.

Charlene tries not to groan; she mostly succeeds.

“Mmhmm. Yeah, I’m still planning on it. I need a couple more things for it though; I’ll stop by the store on my way home and--oh.”

Charlene shouldn’t be listening so intently, but it’s hard not to. She can feel the disappointment emanating off of that single syllable.

Grant’s smile becomes strained. “No, no, no worries. I’ll make it another night. Should I wait up for you, or--” His face falls completely as he’s cut off. “All right. Say hi to Knife for me, will you? I’ll see you in the morning, love.”

Grant hangs up, setting his phone on the table and staring listlessly at the now-black screen. His brow is furrowed, and his mouth is pulled into a troubled frown.

Charlene can’t even poke fun at him for the pet names, not with that look on his face. She’s tempted, on some level, to write him off as a lost cause--he’s so far down this rabbit hole, and seems to have no interest in climbing out of it. It would be so easy to pat his shoulder, give him a short _ That’s rough, buddy_, and never bring any of this up again. 

She watches him absentmindedly pick up a piece of lettuce that had fallen out of the remnants of his sandwich, methodically tearing it into strips. Judging by the way his eyes are darting aimlessly and the minute movements of his jaw, he’s deep in the middle of some imaginary conversation--a rough one, by the looks of it. 

Despite herself, Charlene feels a swell of pitying fondness for the poor guy--the epitome of a lost dog, in man-shaped form. And she’s always had a weakness for strays.

“Hey, Grant.” 

It takes him a few moments to realize that someone’s talking to him; he comes out of his head in stages, finally blinking up at Charlene. “Oh. Uh.” His voice comes out shaky; he clears his throat before continuing. “Sorry. That was--I was--”

Charlene senses he’s about to spend an inordinate amount of time stammering through an apology, and cuts him off. “You busy tonight?”

Grant’s face crumples, and he looks dangerously close to tearing up again. “I--no-- I was, but. But--”

She cuts him off again before he starts spiraling. “Listen. Jane and I have Netflix, a ton of cheap wine, and pizza on speed dial. You wanna come over after work?”

He looks genuinely surprised by the invitation; Charlene can’t help but wonder how often he gets out. She probably doesn’t want to know. 

After a moment, Grant meets her eyes with a desperate sort of determination. “_ God_, yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! I haven't shared anything about these characters publicly, so I know this seems a little out of left field, but I care about them very much. I'm not sure if I'll write anything more, as it's not my strong suit, but I really enjoyed doing this.


End file.
